A Place Called Home
by Dowantasaurus
Summary: Seeking respite from his adventures, William the Lone Wanderer retires to a life of relative normalcy, but when an old friend shows up with a tantalizing prospect, will he really be able to hang up his hat?
1. Chapter 1

The look his father gave him the moment he died was one that William had seen a thousand times in his life. He saw it on his tenth birthday when Butch stole his cookie. He saw it on the day he took the G.O.A.T. He even remembered seeing it the night before his father left Vault 101 forever. "It'll be alright, son," it said. A stinging tear welled up in the corner of William's eye as James pulled the kill switch, gunfire mixing with the sound of overloading circuitry as untold amounts of radiation spilled into the clean room. Warning buzzers sounded, yellow strobe lights flashing in the far corners of the Jefferson Memorial. The Enclave officer and his personal retinue succumbed quickly, but James had always been a fighter.

"William, run!" James cried in anguish, his eyes clenching shut as seizures wracked his body.

There was an excruciating moment when it seemed like his father was crying out, but no sound was mustered. His hands contorted and grasped meekly at the air before he stiffened, and at last relaxed, his panic stricken eyes dilating and cooling into placidity. William's hands, which had been pressed against the bullet-proof glass, clenched into a fists as he crumpled to his knees. A strangled sound loosed itself from his throat.

"Come on, William! Get up!"

It was Sarah's voice. The ball of pain that had gathered in the pit of his stomach unwove a bit. He looked up at her through blurred vision, and gasped.

Colonel Autumn's sneering face greeted him as a pistol was lifted to press against the intersection of his brow. The muzzle was cold and lifeless, just like the bitter gray eyes that now bore into him. "Told you, didn't I boy?" came that smooth, Georgian, drawl, "You should have kept your nose out of all this business while you had the chance."

He squeezed his eyes shut, stumbling through his thoughts for one last fleeting image of something, anything, important to him. He saw Sarah's face, mournful and solemn. Her short blonde hair, usually pulled up in a strictly-business bun, framed her freckled cheeks. He could see her lips part for a moment, as though she were about to say something, before a bullet ripped out the front of her head in a fine mist of gore.

William jerked awake, his body bolting upright, struggling for breath. He looked around frantically, his heart beating a tattoo. There was no Colonel Autumn, no Sarah Lyons, no Project Purity; just the simple slate gray walls of his small room. He let a sigh of relief as he dabbed at his chilled, sweaty, brow, throwing the sheets off his lower half. The rough concrete felt cool to his feet, seating him further into reality.

He was surrounded by the trinkets and baubles of a seasoned adventurer. To one side of his room was a sturdy metal desk blanketed with curios and oddities; a small personal computer that cast an eerie green hue across the room, a mason jar containing a sickly yellow liquid and a bit of what looked to be brain matter, and a stack of pre-war magazines and home journals. Sitting atop the heap was a rugged, leather bound, book that proudly displayed the burnt lettering "Wasteland Survival Guide Second Edition by Moira Brown". Tucked under the desk was a fold-out metal chair with a black, leather, snake-emblazoned, jacket draped over the back. A wardrobe sat opposite of the desk, one of the doors ajar. The dim light of the computer afforded a glimpse of jumpsuits, lab coats, and pre-war attire such as a shabby argyle sweater and khaki slack combo. The walls were covered in American propaganda posters, from the famous picture of a power armored soldier helping Uncle Sam to his feet to an informational flyer urging citizens to report suspicious, unpatriotic, behavior. It was the closest thing the Wasteland had to art. Beside his bed was a small night stand, occupied only by his Pipboy 3000 and a framed picture that read, "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. – Revelations 21:6."

William picked the picture up for a moment, his fingers tracing the simple marquetry of the frame. His lips curled into a solemn smile. He set the frame back in its rightful place before fastening his Pipboy 3000 on. A turn of the knob brought the device to life, the monitor greeting him with the smiling face of Vault Boy as it booted up its operating system. His knees popped a bit in disagreement as he rose to his feet and shambled tiredly towards his wardrobe.

He could tell it was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

His flat had changed little since acquiring it three years ago from a grateful Lucas Simms. Sometime a few months ago he had taken the liberty to knock out the wall separating the master bedroom from the smaller guest bedroom, expanding the floor space of his quarters enough for Wadsworth to move about without getting hung up on the doorway. Around the corner from his room was his prized Nuka Cola machine, humming quietly and casting a cheerful neon glow across the room. A few paces away sat his antique jukebox style radio, and past the narrow catwalk his My First Infirmary and My First Laboratory. They saw little use these days, save when Leo Stahl came pounding at his door at some inhospitable time of the evening screaming about wanting to get clean. It was a vicious cycle. He'd clean up for a few weeks then fall into relapse. For some reason he could never turn him away, though. He had never liked how you could see the first floor from the second. He marked it up as a horrible aesthetic choice of the architect.

William emerged from his room in a Vault 101 jumpsuit, the zipper pulled up to his sternum. The stairs creaked as he descended into the living room. Shafts of light filtered through venetian blinds, giving away the dust that hung in the air. He had installed the windows not too long ago, desiring a combination of natural light and something to do with his overwhelming amount of free time. The living room was cluttered, but it felt like home. A picnic bench sat in the midst of the room, flanked by storage lockers on opposite ends, with a workbench against one wall and a squat three tiered bookcase lined with tattered texts against the stairs. An unfinished project sat on the workbench, a heap of straps, surgical tubing, and a paint gun. Lucas had requested the dart gun a week prior, and he'd been rather lazy about putting it together. Beside the bench was his Vault-Tech display overflowing with bobble-heads. He was to understand he was the only one known thus far to have collected them all. The narrow "kitchen" consisted solely of a barely running refrigerator and two rickety shelving units lined with Fancy Lads Snack Cakes and Dandy Boy Apples. The quiet ambiance of the morning was shattered by the sound of whirring servos and a zero point thruster flaring to life.

"Good morning, sir!" Came the ever chipper voice of Wadsworth as he swung around from behind William.

"Morning, Wadsworth," he replied in kind, maneuvering around the Mr. Handy with a hand braced against the spherical housing of the robot.

"I've already taken the liberty of preparing breakfast for you, sir."

The robot gestured at the picnic table with one of its many apertures. There, on the table, sat a plate of Mirelurk eggs, strips of Mole Rat, and a tall glass of Brahmin milk. William seated himself, picking at the eggs a moment before digging in to the task of eating.

"Perhaps a joke to start the day, sir?"

Wadsworth's voice sounded hopeful. It was one of the few things the robot actually had to do around the house, and despite how many times he had heard the limited selection of jokes, he never deprived the Mr. Handy of the pleasure.

"Sure," he replied between bites.

The eggs were runny, and had a consistency similar to mucus. The texture was one that took some time to get used to, but otherwise they weren't that bad. He finished them first before moving on to the Mole Rat jerky.

"A student recognizes Albert Einstein on a train and asks: Excuse me, professor, but does New York stop by this train?"

He forced a smile, even managing a breathy chuckle. It had been funny the first time he heard it, but after a few dozen deliveries, it was losing its edge. "Good one, Wadsworth."

"Thank you, sir."

He liked to imagine the robot beaming, like a child presenting a parent with a crude drawing. Sometimes he wondered why he humored the robot. Did the robot even care whether he enjoyed it or not? The disturbing reality was Wadsworth was perhaps the person he spent the most time with nowadays, and out of sheer human nature he had begun projecting human qualities onto the Mr. Handy unit. With furrowed brows he finished his Brahmin milk in great gulps. It was thick, and had a pungent odor that he felt hard pressed to find a likeness to. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sliding out from under the table. He left the glass behind, making his way to the mirror hanging over the workbench. Behind him, he heard the gears of one of Wadsworth's many arms grinding in protest as it carefully manipulated a gripping claw around the glass. A calculated repositioning brought it to the underside of its chassis, a spray of pressurized water hosing the residue out. A blast of exhaust from the internal auxiliary power unit brought it to a dry. It was placed delicately next to others like it.

William gazed into the mirror. The man that stared back at him sometimes worried him. Now 21, the tanned, dour, face seemed so alien to him. Already lines were beginning to crease his face. A scar puckered his jaw; the unfortunate result of a Ripper coming a little too close for comfort in a skirmish with Raiders. His dark brown hair was kept uniformly short; too short to get a good handhold, anyway, and was the result of experience and Brotherhood regulations. Before he left 101, he had a full head of hair that reached his chin. He scratched at the stubble growing on his neck, angling his head a bit to get a better look. He was beginning to grow a beard, save for where the scar on his jaw was, and it gave him a rugged appearance that belied his age. His eyes seemed so dull to him now, with a brow that was used to the sun beating down on it. Crows feet were already beginning to span out from keen corners, a side effect of too much squinting. So much death. In his short life he had sent more men to their graves than he could bear to think about.

"Is something troubling you, sir?"

There was no real concern in the robots voice. William pulled himself away from the mirror, shaking his head.

"No, Wadsworth. Nothing new, anyway," he replied grimly.

Wadsworth hovered out of his path, tucking itself unobtrusively in a corner. "My sensors detect heightened anxiety, sir. Perhaps another joke?"

William shook his head again, sinking down on the bench of his picnic table. He felt restless. All this time he had been trying to convince himself that a normal life was what he needed. He was proud of his achievements, but with everything he had accomplished it felt like he had to sacrifice a little bit of himself each time. What would be left when his work was done? It was out of fear that he had returned to Megaton and bowed out of the limelight, fear of losing himself to the person everyone thought he was. He had seen it before. The wasteland was full of Type A personalities, egos that had run rampant and become larger than life. Cult leaders, slavers, raiders, and bonafide psychopaths. In a land without law, they thrived and devoured one another. Worse, he was left totally alone. Women wanted him, to be sure, but he always felt they were in love with the idea of him more than who he actually was, the post-apocalyptic equivalent of groupies.

It hadn't all been bad, though. He learned a lot of things in a short amount of time. First, that nothing in the Wasteland was free. Everything came at a price, and blood was chief in currency. Second, that altruism looked good on paper, but in reality, it was a short, bumpy, road that lead to an ignominious, early, death. Finally, never, ever, fall asleep on a river boat.

He was drug from the mire of his thoughts by a sharp rapping on his front door. He slowly rose to his feet, making his way over to the door. He hefted up the shotgun he kept against the wall, breaking it open to check the two chambers before clicking it back into place. A second knock. He leaned off to the side, prying open a blind with a finger and peering out against the sunlight. He leaned the double barrel against the locker, parting the door wide.

A tall, slender, woman dressed in leathers stood impatiently before him, a hip cocked out and arms crossed atop her chest. She had chin-length, dark brown, hair parted on one side, curtaining her dusty face. Pale lips pursed in a smile, slyly curling at a corner as wild eyes came to bear on his.

"Sydney," he breathed, a bewildered smile evening itself across his face, "What are you doing here?"

She grinned in kind, leaning a shoulder up against the door frame. "Hey there, handsome," she purred, "I was just in the neighborhood and figured I'd drop by. Can I come in?"

She glanced past him into his home, pushing off the frame as she slid between him and into the living room without waiting for a response.

"Sure," he murmured, "Make yourself at home."


	3. Chapter 3

"Nice place," Sydney commented, glancing about half-interestedly.

"Thanks," he managed to reply, his hands suddenly not busy enough.

He hooked his thumbs in the corners of his pockets, following closely behind her as she meandered through his living room. She paused in front of the book shelf, leaning in closely to read the spines of his book collection.

"Oh, wow," she murmured, her finger tracing along, "Where did you find all these?"

He rolled his shoulders, giving a little smile. "Here and there, I suppose. I used to go looking for them, back when I collected them for the Brotherhood. After a while, I stopped turning them in to the scribes and started keeping them for myself. I read a lot."

She pulled a copy of Crime and Punishment from the shelf, thumbing through it.

"Fascinating," she remarked, "I'm amazed you found so many in such condition."

"The vaults hold many secrets," he replied, a little annoyed with how cliché that sounded, "You know, that particular book was considered contraband at one point in time. Pre-war America didn't trust literature from foreign countries, let alone Russians," he realized he was rambling, "Of course; you didn't come all this way to discuss books, did you?"

He folded his arms across his chest, settling his weight on a single foot. He looked decidedly defensive, almost accusing. He knew Sydney. She didn't just "drop by". Between her shop in Underworld and her extracurricular activities, she was entirely too busy to travel half way across the Capital Wasteland to exchange idle pleasantries.

She smirked, shutting the book with a clasp of her hand, heavy lashes brushing her cheeks. She folded her arms as well, tucking the book beneath a pit as she responded cattily, "I'll have you know I have a keen interest in things like these."

_More like a keen interest in how much they're worth, _he thought to himself.

"I'm right, though, aren't I?" He pressed, gesturing to the table, "Have a seat. You can tell me while I get you something to drink."

She smiled coolly, sliding onto the bench as she straddled it. "Chill out, Will, you almost act like you're not happy to see me, and I know that can't be true."

She dropped her chin on the heel of her upturned palm, watching him with predator's eyes as he moved about the kitchen.

"It's not that I'm unhappy to see you, Moonbeam," he flexed the nickname gently as he strolled across the living room to Wadsworth, glass in hand, "It's just that I know trouble when I see it. I don't know if you heard, but I'm sort of on hiatus from the whole adventuring business," he held the glass to Wadsworth's water dispenser, prompting the robot by pinging the glass against it.

"Oh, my! How rude," Wadsworth exclaimed, fresh, purified, water beginning to trickle out.

He heard her laugh behind him, a throaty little roll that died in a little 'mmm'.

"So I'm trouble now, am I?" She sounded amused, and as he turned to offer her the now full glass, she straightened, "Wouldn't be the first time I've been called that, I suppose."

She took the offered water, sipping at it before taking a deeper drink. It gave him ample time to sit next to her on the far end of the bench. He propped himself up on an elbow, his idle hand resting on his knee. She glanced at him over the brim of the glass before setting it off to the side, swallowing the rest she held in her mouth with an exaggerated "ahh".

"Good stuff," she commented, hunkering a little closer to him, "I heard you had called it quits. Didn't believe it at first, but then I heard it from some of the BoS. They said you just took off one day, without so much as a goodbye. I heard that Lyon's girl was pretty upset."

Those words stuck him like a knife, but he didn't betray it on his face.

"They did, did they…" it wasn't a question, his voice trailing off as he grew lost in thought.

He tried not to think about Sarah. It had been hard to leave without saying goodbye, but he felt that somehow it would be easier for her to hate him for it than have to explain his self. Now she probably thought him a coward, the very thing he had hoped to avoid.

Sydney shrugged a bit, adding "Hey, don't let it bother you. I'm sure you had your reasons. You did some good things, you know? No one will forget that any time soon. I'm not here to put you on trial."

She did something a little uncharacteristic, then. She reached across the gap between them, settling her hand on his and giving it a little pat. He stared at it for a moment, offering a thin smile.

"Thanks."

She smiled in kind, giving his hand a final pat. "Anyway," she started, her fingers retracting to wrap around the strap of her backpack, "I had a customer a while back. Weird guy, kind of fidgety, you know?"

She dipped a shoulder, sloughing the backpack into her lap as nimble undid the clasps and buckles.

"He said he had found a vault, one that wasn't mentioned in the Vault Tech records. I thought he was crazy at first, but he had this holotape."

She procured the disk, a battered thing that looked like it would never play. She offered it to him, and he took it, giving it a little look over.

"Jesus Christ, I'm surprised he recognized it for what it was," he muttered, thumbing at a dented corner.

"Tell me about it," she chuckled, "You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to extract the data, or how much it cost me get the damn thing to begin with."

He lifted a brow. "So what did you find?"

"Something much better than a vault," the excitement was building in her voice, her eyes glinting, "A G.E.C.K."

William had been rolling the holotape around in his hands, but as soon as he heard G.E.C.K. he stopped. She nodded at his reaction, a hand coming up to cradle her jaw. He immediately had a dozen questions for her, but he settled on one.

"Where? If there had been a vault with a G.E.C.K. in it, there would have been something about it at Vault Techs headquarters. I don't recall-"

She cut him off, shaking her head, "Because it's not in a vault."

He was even more confused. He rubbed at his chin, brows knit in thought. "Alright, I'll bite. If it's not in a vault, then where is it?"

She seemed amused, as though his reactions had been exactly what she hoped for. In a way, they were.

"I knew you couldn't resist," she gloated.

She scooted closer to him, setting her backpack on the table. She pulled a tube from inside, popping the cap off and tilting the contents out. A rolled length of paper spilled out, and she unfurled it across the tabletop. It was a map of the Wastes. Incomplete; but marking out several notable locations like The Citadel, Rivet City, and an impressive amount of landmarks in the downtown metroplex.

"The minds at Vault-Tech weren't the only ones that thought of holocaust shelters. Keep in mind that the waiting lists were long, and only a few thousand were ever admitted into the program. Some of the wealthier eccentrics built their own doomsday bunkers."

She pressed her finger to the map, far to the North West. It was completely blank, and outside of the Capital Wasteland proper.

"The data was badly damaged, but I was able to get bits and pieces. It seemed as though the holotape was something of a journal for a personal contractor. He never mentions his name, but he talks about building an underground complex for a man named J. Allen Barnaby. One of his entries describes an exchange he saw between Barnaby and an unidentified man. Money changed hands, and Barnaby was presented with a large, silver, suitcase with the Future-Tec logo on it."

"A G.E.C.K.?" William posed speculatively, shaking his head, "I don't buy it. That suitcase could have been anything. Besides, how would they get their hands on a piece of tech like that without someone noticing?"

Sydney rolled her eyes, tapping her temple. "Think. People were scared shitless. There was a lot of money to be made if you were willing to take a little risk. How extraordinary is the idea of a Future-Tec employee selling a G.E.C.K. on the black market?"

William rolled it over in his mind a bit. He supposed it was possible that a greedy employee with enough balls could potentially sell a G.E.C.K. to a paranoid millionaire, but it sounded all too grand. Still, there were more questions.

"Wait a second, even if he did have a G.E.C.K., what are the chances of the bunker being untouched after all this time?"

Sydney huffed. "You have no imagination. Look, the contractor was no slouch. Some of the stuff he installed was military grade. The whole thing is deep underground, accessible only by a hidden passage within the house. A four digit pass code keeps it secure, and beyond that extensive security measures. There's a good chance it'd withstand some Joe Blow Average trying to diddle with the wires."

"Alright, say there is a G.E.C.K., and the bunker hasn't already been looted. I don't suppose you have the code?"

She seemed frustrated, and he decided he'd ease off on the obstinacy.

"No," she replied, a bit frazzled, "Just part of it; the data was too damaged to get the rest. Still, can you honestly say you're not the least bit interested? I mean, we're talking about a G.E.C.K. here. One G.E.C.K. restored pure water to the entire-"

William shook his head, chuckling a bit. "It's not the same thing. That G.E.C.K. was custom built by Stanislaus Braun; it was a true terraforming device. All the rest are just survival kits at best."

"What do you mean 'at best'? They contain a portable cold fusion generator, as well as enough seeds to bring agriculture back to the Wasteland. I heard Madison Li is working on a serum derived from your little buddy Howard-"

"Harold," William corrected.

"Whatever. The point is, just think how a G.E.C.K. could change the lives of the people around here. Look what it did the first time. How often do you get the chance to grant a miracle twice?"

She seemed to be pleading with him, and although he was a little annoyed at her trying to appeal to his sense of heroics, he couldn't argue. A G.E.C.K. would go a long way to providing a stable enough platform to build a new civilization. She placed her hand on his again, tilting her head off to the side as she steadied her gaze on him.

"Come on, Will. One last adventure?"

Her voice took the same quality as a mother trying to get her child to do something. He swore if she said "for me?" he'd punch her in the face out of principle. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he gave a subdued nod.

"Fine, you win."

She squealed as she threw her arms around him, giving him a close hug as she rocked him back and forth.

"Yes! I knew you wouldn't let me down!"

She felt warm. It had been a while since he'd been hugged. The last time was Sarah, and before then, Amata. He knew he was being used, but he felt as long as he was aware of it, it wasn't so bad. He pushed her gently away with a hand at her stomach.

"Yeah, yeah. Calm down. You don't have to get so excited about me being a sucker," he rustled his hair a bit, suddenly feeling the need to stand.

As he did so, she gave a little laugh. "Its okay, Will, Sometimes being a sucker isn't so bad if it's for the right reasons."

He needed fresh air. It was stuffy in his house, and his mind felt a bit cloudy.

"Why me?" he suddenly asked, casting his gaze over his shoulder at her. "You could have just as easily taken this information to the Brotherhood of Steel. They would have been more than happy to look into it."

Her face lost some of its playful quality, "I don't really like to work with them. Bad blood, I guess. Besides," she gazed at him for a moment, chewing on her lip as though mulling something over before coming to a decision, "I like you a lot better. We make a good team. I still remember when we met, you know. You could have screwed me over, but you didn't. You're a good person, Will, and I trust you."

He tried not to read into that, and just laughed it off.

"Thanks, I guess. Say, um, I'm going to go get some fresh air, so just make your self at home. Nuka Cola machine is upstairs, help your self," he gestured to the stairs and turned to the door, desperate to have a moment with his thoughts.

[Author's Note: I'm a little uncomfortable with the interactions, so this is likely to change. For now I'm just trying to get it all down on paper before I lose interest, though, so I hope you enjoy it thus far. Thanks for the support.]


End file.
